Writing is so much cheaper than therapy, and you can drink while you do it!

Writing is so much cheaper than therapy, and you can drink while you do it!

Monday, April 27, 2015

Pro tips on how NOT to bury a 20 pound, dead feral cat

Okayyyyyy....are you all ready for your daily dose of gallows humor?

Pro tips on how NOT to bury a 20 pound, dead feral cat. Burying live ones is another post....

But back to the tips.
Supply list:
  • Kitchen bag of car squished, 20 pound, dead feral cat who has been terrorizing your own cats and has now let go of this mortal coil via random F=MA urban assault vehicle. 
  • A comfortably sized spade or squared off shovel.
  • Wellingtons or other mud boot attire 
  • Antibiotic ointment 
  • Bandages 
  • An appreciation of gallows humor. 

1. Find a nice bit of soft earth, not too muddy, not too hard, and commence with the hole making. Cheer that your body is cooperating, excelling even, and be pleased that you are able to do this for the 20 pound, dead feral cat. If you live in an area where there are scavengers -- coyotes, raccoons, velociraptors -- be sure to dig a deep hole.
 I chose about four feet down. Perfect. Stand and admire your handy work and imbue the area with a sense of calm and solemnity befitting the sad situation of feral kitty getting some compassion in death, although in life he was a raging asshole who plagued your existence by beating up your pets, stealing their food, and massacring (yes, that is the correct spelling) baby wild bunnies and squirrels and leaving their heads for you to find as a warning.

2. Retrieve from the front yard the 20 pound, dead feral cat stuffed into a scented kitchen garbage bag and place it next to the area where you will be planting it. Make a speech about how bad you feel that he didn't have a forever home, and that he had a hard life, but now he is at peace and will feast in Kitty Valhalla with Freya and Odin.

Let him know that even though you despised him for his assholedness, you respect his tenacity and wildness...even though his aggression cost you many hundreds of dollars in vet bills, and then apologize for digressing. Wish him well on his journey with no ill will. Reflect on society and all of the animals in need of forever homes.
Take a moment.
 Remember all of the dead bunny, squirrel, bird carcasses, Beauty Cat's expensive torn up face, and other shenanigans...
Find that center of compassion again, give a nod, move to step three.

3. Open garbage bag and dump kitty into hole.

4. Stand in mute amazement at the size of the 20 pound, dead feral cat ensconced askew in what you thought was a perfect hole. However, cringe at the fact that you did not take rigor mortis into account when determining the width of the hole. Dead kitty is on his back with stiff little dead kitty legs sticking straight up. yes. Let that image sink in. Yeahhhhh.
yes...I know this is a goat. But simply imagine it is a rather large cat. Tahdah.

5. To avoid skeletal Kitty Leg Plants from poking up out of the earth as the grave settles over the next few weeks, always be sure to account for rigor mortis and make the hole wide enough.

6. Decide whether or not it's worth it A) to take large 20 pound, dead feral cat out of said hole to widen the final resting place, or B) attempt to manipulate the legs so dead feral asshole cat can rest eternally on his side.
Option B.

Half way through, regret not choosing Option A.

Use your imagination, folks. The back legs cooperated. The front legs.... Oh dear.

Ten minutes of nightmare-inducing leg folding later, try and extricate your arm from the hole.
Those awful tearing sensations are the 20 pound, dead feral cat claws that somehow magically extended and are now firmly entrenched in the back of your right arm and hand.

WTF. Double check to see if kitty is really dead. Yup. Dead. gah. Realize that 20 pound, dead feral cat is an asshole even in death. 

7. Fill in hole.

8. Clean wounds and bandage.

9. Call for therapy.


Oh dear.
The owner of the 20 pound, dead feral cat knocked on my door today. She's a neighbor from a few streets over.
She asked if I had seen her cat....the apparently non-feral 20 pound, dead cat.
I made that little tsk sound accompanied by the sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth.
"Was he black with soft grey spots?"
"Was?" she asked, somewhat taken aback by my use of the past tense. "Yes. He's black with grey on him. Have you seen him?"
"Big guy?"
She nodded.
I nervously scratched at the healing puncture marks on my arm.

"Why yes, yes I have. I am sad to report that he is, unfortunately, erm, um, respectfully ensconced in a nearly, somewhat, mostly perfect grave in my back yard. He was hit by a car on the main road."
She blinked a few times. And then the tears started.
"Um....I'm sorry for your loss. It was very quick...he didn't appear to have suffered if that's any consolation."
She just stood there staring at me, which of course made me start rambling.
"I honestly thought he was feral. He was always sneaking into my house and eating my food, and beating up my cats, and generally acting like an assho--"
I cringed. (Oh, Venkman, I'm sooory. I'm sorry, Venkman.) yeaaaahhhhh.
She said, "He was kind of an asshole. I'm sorry about that, but he was also really cool."
Blerg. yarg. blaaaaaaah.
I offered to show her his grave. I suppose that's rather morbid, but I thought she'd get closure. She followed me silently down to his resting place. I sincerely hoped there weren't any bits poking up through the dirt.
Nope. Job well done, me!
She said thank you and just stared at his "area".
"He was treated with the utmost respect." I didn't go into detail about rigor mortis, or hole depth and width, leg folding, and all ensuing trauma. I probably should have just stopped babbling, but I couldn't help myself.  "Um...do you want me to dig him up so you can cremate him or something? Take him with you?"
Yes. I shocked even myself with that one. I knew I could pass off the tweaked legs as car damage if need be. ha! sigh.
Thankfully she declined. She said that I was very kind and thanked me again, and then left quickly.
Good Jayzuss I hope she doesn't find my blog. snerk.


Shortly after Mother's Day I came home to flowers on my front porch. There was a card attached:

Thanks for being kind to my asshole cat.

I can neither confirm nor deny that there were monkey sniffles.

I put this here because it amuses me so

UPDATE 2 : FFS, people. Please...I do not advocate animal cruelty in any way. I do not condone lethal measures to control feral cat populations. I do not advocate killing, shooting, maiming, torturing feral/stray cats.  I had hoped that the tone of this post was taken with the implied humor regarding the situation.
There are thousands upon thousands of feral and stray pets that need forever homes. It's sad.
The feline in this post was killed on the road by a random car...not on purpose, not maliciously, not with any long-term plan of eradication in mind. I did not smoosh this cat. I did in fact cry over said smooshed cat.
I do not want to hear your stories of how you "eradicated" your own feral cats.
I do not need tips on how to kill cats.
I do not want tips or advice on how to kill cats.
And it's not censorship if I don't approve your overly detailed comment regarding ways to kill feral cats. I am not the government. Well, I am my own boss, but you know what I mean. This is a private blog. My sandbox. My shovel.

Now if you want to laugh hysterically from a dose of pure gallows humor then read my blog. If you also have an amusing tale of burying woe from an unintended, impersonal, amusingly tragic pet hole deposit, by all means share away in the comments.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Goodreads Giveaway!

Hey! Monkey pic seekers!

I'm giving away five copies of Mostly Dead Melvin between 10/29/2014 and 11/30/2014 at Goodreads!
Enter today for your chance to win this book!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Mostly Dead Melvin by Foinah Jameson

Mostly Dead Melvin

by Foinah Jameson

Giveaway ends November 30, 2014.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

What to do with true love spam....

I recently received an email at my author page on Goodreads.
Being a freshly published author I got all excited about the "fan" who was writing to me.
Giddy with author pride I clicked the link and VOILA...
Eye roll.


But golden, sexy spam, ripe for the frying.

I redacted his name because it's the polite thing to do. And no...sadly the initials J.A. do not stand for Jensen Ackles (my alternate reality super boyfriend)
to: 8098414 Foinah Jameson
subject: I want a relationship with you
message: I am J(redacted) A(redacted),

Am a Petroleum Engineer,an Honduran based in United Kingdom.
As i was reading,i saw your beautiful face 

 and  i can't hide my feelings to contact you.I don't
know how to love again since my last heart break.

But i believe distance between us doesn't matter
because am having the feelings that you are
the special woman to love,trust and cherish if
you can give me a chance to have a relationship
with you.

It is A mighty pain to love it is,
And Love is a pain that pain to miss;
But, of all pains, the greatest pain,
Is to love, but love in vain.
I am very interested to know you"

Please send relationship accepted via email to
(blahblahblah1sl@gmail.com ) or
( blahblahblah1sl@yahoo.dk )
so i can send my photos to you.

Yours Love,
J(redacted) A(redacted).

Well...that was interesting. 
I'm not a mean person by nature, but I do love an opportunity to amuse myself so I answered his little love note.

How could I not?

How could I not respond to such a moving plea from a paramour of his standing? Hmmmmm?

My response:

Dear Love,

It is rare that such moving words can wake me from my slumber. But you have valiantly taken sword to thorn walls to free me, scaled the highest tree to procure the sweetest fruit, groomed me, cleansed me of mites that burrow and chew....

But my family must come with me, we dine, we sleep, we run en mass. You will grow accustomed to their hoots and hollers of joyous abandon. You will have the highest perch and watch over us in the night.

"It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I bless the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had"

I will share my fruit with you, teach you the secrets of the stick in the log for the sweetest treats.

Do you smoke?
I must rely on this platform for our burgeoning love. I have no access to an email...just this battered research laptop I may borrow while the doctor is away.

Let me know when I may look for you. I will lower a branch so that you may join me and rule by my side.

I think I blew his mind!!!
I waited a few hours and, after no response, I then sent this gem: 

My love,
Why have you not yet responded?
Is it unexpected that you could tame my wild nature so very quickly?

How can I explain?
When there are few words I can choose, how can I explain when words get broken?

This world moves quickly for two lost souls in love’s fishbowl.

Do you remember there was a time a when people on the street
were walking hand in hand in hand? They used to talk about the weather,
making plans together, days would last forever....

Let not the distance chain our love!
Come to me, cover me, hold me! Together we'll break these chains of love!
Don't give up, just don't give up (Don't)!!!!
Together with me, you, my baby, we can break the chains of love.

Is there an impediment? What is the delay? Remember...I have limited access to this laptop so time is of the essence because am having the feelings!

I eagerly await your response.

My plan was to become progressively more unstable and needy, and to finally ask him to send me money because he was obviously a wealthy  oil engineer and could afford to support me during my transition back to society.

Unfortunately Goodreads nuked the emails. I was so sad. I didn't think to actually save his gmail or yahoo addresses when I cut and pasted the originals to my facebook wall. 
Now I'll never know if JA was the one.


 -- Foinah

Sunday, October 12, 2014

The psychology of smokey dokes. Or how I learned to be a pariah and start loving the shunning.


Welcome to the road less traveled where all of your monkey pic needs are satisfied.
I do enjoy being a resource, a clearing house, a repository of the inane.
Sometimes I even have something to say!

Today I would like to discuss smoking.
I'm a smoking monkey.
Yes, yes I am.
I'm a monkey with a monkey on my back.

But my monkey is a Masseuse. Clever little fellow, my monkey knows how to banish my stress, keep me calm, and ease the urge to fling poo.

Not actual poo. That's disgusting.
Metaphorical poo.

I love my monkey. Who cares if his weight is slowly pushing my lungs out the front of my body!

I smoke clove cigars.

How 80's anachronistic am I?! Eh?

Regular smokes are disgusting. They stink. At least my clothes smell of spice.

Yes...I can bend space and time with the amount of spice I ingest.

I'm a polite smoker. I do not smoke near children, I always ask if the smoke will bother someone before I light up, and I do not litter; those butts are put safely in a bin. My adoration of my vice makes me an outcast in today's health conscious society.  Whatevs, man. You say pariah, I say quiet contemplation/creative time.

I abhor rude smokers. You know the type: Lights up in closed spaces, waves the cig around like a laser pointer, dumps ashes everywhere,  with the sick stick clenched between their teeth rude smoker approaches children, puffing madly and crop dusting carcinogens over tender pure-lunged youngins.
People who smoke around kids are complete and total ASS CLOWNS. Seriously. It's just not okay.
Eejits. The lot of them.
Have I just described you, rude smoker? Sorry.
(Not really)

I do, too. Let's be pals.
It's bad for me you say?
It's a disgusting habit? I'm a horrible person? It's what killed the dinosaurs? You have graphic photos of smokers' lungs to show me?

I'm going to die???????
Everything dies eventually.

I'm a horror writer. Nothing scares me.
(That's a total lie. Lots of things scare me.)

clowns...why did it have to be clowns? Very dangerous...you go first.

Let's get back to the discussion, shall we? This blog goes out to the smokers ~ the proud, the few, the sneaky-outside-breathmint-'no I wasn't smoking'-weather resistant- brethren. Oh we happy few (deedeedeeeeeeedadoooooo). Smokers like me, join and rejoice in our filthy vice!

I smoke when I write. I have an outside office.

I've said before that I channel good old Gonzo himself (Hunter S. in the brain!) without the bats or drugs. Instead I have stinkbugs, hummingbirds (I get dive-bombed all of the time due to my glorious mane of RED hair), cloves, and copious amounts of caffeine.

I have certain rituals regarding smoking: the tap on the new pack, the careful removal of the cellowrap and foil, the first smoke acknowledgement.

This is important.
I channel John Lovitz from News Radio, and in his voice I say, "Cigarette,  prepare to be smoked!"

In my mind it makes the smokey doke less inclined to do damage to the lungs.

It's a quirk. What can I say?
But it works for me.

Phase I

Happy smoke, smoke, smoke....type, smoke, read a bit, smoke. Sip coffee.  Smoke half a one and put it out. Toss it in the butt can; I have a whole pack. I can be decadent.  Chain smoking my way to creative incandescence.

Ahhhh. Blessed silence. No one bothers me in the sacred smoke bubble.

Phase II

Hours later -- uh-oh. I only have four smokes left. Just let me get this chapter finished.
{looks at accumulated halfsies and poorly stubbed remnants of the sacred inspiration flaming stick}

Phase III  (usually at 3:00 am or when it's impossible to leave the house for another haul of clovey goodness because the kids are NOT going to be left at home alone. Ooof. Another pet peeve: kids who are neglected! Sack up parents!)
Back to the regularly scheduled whingeing
I'm out!
Why did I just crush those half smoked ones?! Why was I not more careful????
I don't want to put on pants and go up the way to the minimart!

I sit and remember each puff on that first smoke, the negligent and wasteful tossing away....
The horror...the horror. 


This consists of rummaging in the butt bin for salvageable smokes.
Come on....we've all done it.
When I'm out in my office I tend to channel my inner bag lady. Multiple layers of jackets, fingerless gloves, uncombed hair.... It's frightening.
The smokes are stale or dewy, and I say outloud, "This is disgusting. You should just quit."

Who? Me?


So I go buy a new pack and start the whole process over again!!!!!!

See you all at 3:00 am for a smokey doke run!
-- Foinah